


I'm Rubbish At Titles I

by witchwood_hull



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Introspection, minor spoiler for major event (season 8), non-canon monster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 17:57:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchwood_hull/pseuds/witchwood_hull
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel re-examines his latest choice, with no help from a local.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Rubbish At Titles I

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t technically seen S8 but I’m pretty sure that I’ve got the gist of what happens in terms of the foundations of this little story. Spoilery gif-sets are spoilery. (Also: I have NO IDEA what the Big Bad is — kind of a mishmash of things, I guess. Maybe it was one of the Jefferson Starships.)

Castiel sat on the grass and stared off into space, his gaze fixed on the approximate spot where he'd last seen Dean's face. 

Was he weak, or was he strong? Had it been cowardice—an inability to face all that had been done and left undone? Had it been strength—a choice made to do the hard thing, the right thing? 

"Hello pretty," a voice said, thin and breathy. 

The cold that enveloped him didn't bother him, didn't even elicit so much as a blink. 

"So pretty. So shiny. So  _warm_. Could eat for days on you…" Darkness began to coalesce in the shady spots under the nearby trees. 

Castiel continued to ignore the voice. His arm still remembered the clasp of Dean's callused hand; if he concentrated he could remember every second of the embrace the man had pulled him into when they'd been reunited. The scent of him, the feel of his arms, the look on his face,  _everything_. 

Dark tendrils slipped across the ground and curled around Castiel, not quite touching. "Have you given up? Were you left here? How could the dark one not want something so pure and shining?" 

How could Castiel ever be considered  _pure?_  With very few exceptions, he'd been as worldly and as vulgar as Dean himself. Had doubted and questioned and  _rebelled_. Had said no. Had dared to be God! He huddled up, putting his arms around his legs and pressing his face to his knees. He had dared to pretend to Godhood… 

"So beautiful, you… Dark one would have been tasty too. So sad, abandoned angel. Mm… More for me!" 

Dean hadn't left him. Dean hadn't left  _him_. Despite everything, Dean had sought him out, had made finding him his priority even over getting free of Purgatory. 

_Blood and sweat and bone and fear and metal and under that was Dean, was the spice of his cells and the soothing rush of his pulse, was weary love and ever-cracked heart._  

"Sad, sad… Hey. Hey, hey, do angel-tears work miracles?" Black, black like leviathan ooze, black that shifted like nothing natural should—it pooled up a few inches from the toes of Castiel's shoes and then began to rise upward. "Should gather some before I feast, if yeah." 

"Not crying," Castiel said, because he wasn't. Didn't know if he  _could_ , come to think of it. 

"Oh?" Tendrils like pea-vines flicked out, waving, seeking… "Oh… Oh delicious. Pretty shiny thing, I shall lick the flesh from your bones ever so slowly." And with that, the darkness shot up to approximately six feet tall, humanoid features quickly forming as it rose. 

"Not yet." Castiel uncoiled, shoving himself over onto his knees before getting up. 

"Hey, buddy, where you goin'?" 

"Dean—" He spun around, open-mouthed, at the sound of Dean's voice. It looked like Dean, dried blood and stubble and all. "No, no, you're—" 

"This is what you want," Not-Dean said, a hand around the back of Castiel's neck, pulling him close. 

"Not  _you,_ " Castiel said, lashing out with both hands. "You're not—" Claws curled into skin and the angel turned out from under Not-Dean's arm, his mouth stretching into a grimace at the familiar heft of his blade in his hand. He closed his eyes as he continued the turn, sinking it up to its haft in Not-Dean's chest. 

"But you wanted… Wanted…" Blackness bled from fingertips and boot-toes, shirt and coat collars, earlobes and hair. "So… pretty…"

"What I want is something  _you_  cannot give," Castiel said, yanking the blade free from the thing. "Something I could have had, except that I was  _stupid._ " 

"just…hungry…" The thing sighed and slumped back into a puddle that sank into the grass. 

Castiel began looking for a way out. 


End file.
